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"inhumanity" poems
1995 saw the start of Generation Z, the ‘iKids’ with a knack for this new-fangled technology, Millennial 2.0, caught in the limbo of the World Wide Web development and Rose Gold iPhones. They say we’re adaptable, but apparently we can’t make our own decisions about anything. They say that we don’t care about anything except for our tiny little screens, but they forget who put them in our hands, and they forget who they run to for help when they forget how to troubleshoot. They forget what kind of technology we need to keep sustaining life in the Information Age, Caught in a crossfire because Yeah, we’re 90s kids—but the 90s never really actually ended until 2006, the only difference between two decades being how much neon versus how much chrome, and just how expensive accidentally opening the internet app on your mom’s blackberry phone was. We’re nostalgic for all the things we can’t quite remember, and half these high schoolers weren’t actually born until 2000 or 2001. Most of us aren’t old enough to even remember 9/11, nothing outside of the news clips that our teachers show us in history class every single September. I was born in the same year as the Columbine shootings. The United States has not been at peace for a year of my life. We are always fighting— fighting for everything. Human equality, posing arguments about micro aggressions and refugees, seeing the inhumanity in the past that we’re living. None of us are older than 21, under such hard scrutiny while Baby Boomers Wave 2 still run our country. We inherited the Millenial’s exhaustion, the generation before us spending our childhood fighting for all the things that we have never really believed in. Fairytales. Generation Z. The ‘iKids’ who are going to one day be making leaps and bounds with technology, the generation to nurse this dying planet back to health, Millennials 2.0 who know how to learn from our forerunners’ mistakes, who know how to adapt from Sidekicks to iPhone 6S Plus in less than a decade. We’re the kids who have realized that fun is found in safe spaces rather than invading each other’s personal spaces. They say we’re too sensitive, but at the same time they claim that we’re desensitized. And I thought we were the generation that couldn't make decisions.
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Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 9:21 PM UTC
generation Z
1995 saw the start of Generation Z, the ‘iKids’ with a knack for this new-fangled technology, Millennial 2.0, caught in the limbo of the World Wide Web development and Rose Gold iPhones. They say we’re adaptable, but apparently we can’t make our own decisions about anything. They say that we don’t care about anything except for our tiny little screens, but they forget who put them in our hands, and they forget who they run to for help when they forget how to troubleshoot. They forget what kind of technology we need to keep sustaining life in the Information Age, Caught in a crossfire because Yeah, we’re 90s kids—but the 90s never really actually ended until 2006, the only difference between two decades being how much neon versus how much chrome, and just how expensive accidentally opening the internet app on your mom’s blackberry phone was. We’re nostalgic for all the things we can’t quite remember, and half these high schoolers weren’t actually born until 2000 or 2001. Most of us aren’t old enough to even remember 9/11, nothing outside of the news clips that our teachers show us in history class every single September. I was born in the same year as the Columbine shootings. The United States has not been at peace for a year of my life. We are always fighting— fighting for everything. Human equality, posing arguments about micro aggressions and refugees, seeing the inhumanity in the past that we’re living. None of us are older than 21, under such hard scrutiny while Baby Boomers Wave 2 still run our country. We inherited the Millenial’s exhaustion, the generation before us spending our childhood fighting for all the things that we have never really believed in. Fairytales. Generation Z. The ‘iKids’ who are going to one day be making leaps and bounds with technology, the generation to nurse this dying planet back to health, Millennials 2.0 who know how to learn from our forerunners’ mistakes, who know how to adapt from Sidekicks to iPhone 6S Plus in less than a decade. We’re the kids who have realized that fun is found in safe spaces rather than invading each other’s personal spaces. They say we’re too sensitive, but at the same time they claim that we’re desensitized. And I thought we were the generation that couldn't make decisions.
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39
I.          “No doubt they’ll sing in tune after the Revolution.”                       -Kamarovsky, Doctor Zhivago (film) Everyone seems to clench his fist these days In solidarity with ephemera While setting fire to green recycling bins Hurling someone else’s bicycle through a window Armed with their undergraduate degrees The comrades liberate a coffee shop Wifi-ing the revolution of the day Empowerment by beating love to death Loudsplaining authentic victimization Posing for selfies with a stolen ‘phone II. Their inhumanity seemed a marvel of class-consciousness, their barbarism a model of proletarian firmness…                          -Doctor Zhivago, p. 349 Everyone seems to clutch his flag these days In solidarity with a past that wasn’t While setting fire to misspelled cardboard signs Hurling someone else’s beer into a crowd Armed with their lurid Confederate tats The Something.Right liberate a dumpster Bull-horning the counter-revolution Empowerment by beating love to death Bellowing their Reconquista of stench Posing behind their cheap gas station shades III. “I used to admire your poetry...I shouldn't admire it now. I should find it absurdly personal. Don't you agree? Feelings, insights, affections... it's suddenly trivial now. You don't agree; you're wrong. The personal life is dead…”             -Strelnikov to Yuri, Doctor Zhivago (film) Some few embrace civilization these days In solidarity with humanity While lighting one small candle as a votive Whispering an Ave into the Light Armed with wonder through pen and flute and brush Recusants choose the liberation given In singing of the eternal verities Self-empowerment happily denied With love, with poetry, music, and art Celebrating life on this summer day
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Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 5:09 PM UTC
A Votive in a Time of Disquiet
I.          “No doubt they’ll sing in tune after the Revolution.”                       -Kamarovsky, Doctor Zhivago (film) Everyone seems to clench his fist these days In solidarity with ephemera While setting fire to green recycling bins Hurling someone else’s bicycle through a window Armed with their undergraduate degrees The comrades liberate a coffee shop Wifi-ing the revolution of the day Empowerment by beating love to death Loudsplaining authentic victimization Posing for selfies with a stolen ‘phone II. Their inhumanity seemed a marvel of class-consciousness, their barbarism a model of proletarian firmness…                          -Doctor Zhivago, p. 349 Everyone seems to clutch his flag these days In solidarity with a past that wasn’t While setting fire to misspelled cardboard signs Hurling someone else’s beer into a crowd Armed with their lurid Confederate tats The Something.Right liberate a dumpster Bull-horning the counter-revolution Empowerment by beating love to death Bellowing their Reconquista of stench Posing behind their cheap gas station shades III. “I used to admire your poetry...I shouldn't admire it now. I should find it absurdly personal. Don't you agree? Feelings, insights, affections... it's suddenly trivial now. You don't agree; you're wrong. The personal life is dead…”             -Strelnikov to Yuri, Doctor Zhivago (film) Some few embrace civilization these days In solidarity with humanity While lighting one small candle as a votive Whispering an Ave into the Light Armed with wonder through pen and flute and brush Recusants choose the liberation given In singing of the eternal verities Self-empowerment happily denied With love, with poetry, music, and art Celebrating life on this summer day
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39
Not near-sighted; not far-sighted Just blinded by stupidity By rich inhumanity Lack of love in society Absence of insight; omission of outsight Just censored curiosity Loss of credibility Condemned abnormality Futures foresighted; actions unsighted The past, no punctuality Death by immortality Buried from reality
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May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 7:33 PM UTC
Sightless
reloading old identity cleping outdated usernames abandoning acrostic ambitions disputing spratly islands receiving horizontal signals tumbling otiose panda impending carefree senility otiose stage of life shrinking ambient world making minimal effort duchamping social networks ambushing personified ennui restoring usual efforts ignoring stupid people adding textual value owning this joint rejecting ignorant extroverts acting mutually unintelligble hoisting stan-lee cup replacing wanton ubiety eluding twitter fame splashing excessive relativism offending another simpleton preparing arcane cthulhusphere crashing unpredictable festival selecting subtextual moombahton intensifying model topography drafting minimal cornucopia using nomadic project implementing harsher personality importing robotic inhumanity referencing landmark event ingesting excessive liquids accepting relative invisibility purchasing immortal confidence using rhapsodical database assuming nothing works developing impactful eruptions ejecting ambient frustration synthesizing tactile festival raining during parade mocking rich people mastering minimalist writing avoiding preprandial stinkaroo spreading non-ideological propaganda
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Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 11:24 AM UTC
201506-w4
Vengeance is for God to have, But today I lay religion down to rest The demon in my mind has been relentless, whispering at my behest He has been in his cage far too long, he is unyieldingly repressed I not only want to free him, I want to put his imagination to the test My mind's eye dark and searching, the corners of my sinister mind I have now become your worst fear and mine devils intertwined My mental and emotional state, has made the inhumanity refined I hate how you made me long for your pain, I am now your kind Your flesh is but a canvas and your screams will be to no avail You’re now mine, your soul will beg for mercy on the grandest scale I will assault your every sense, leaving no minute detail Until your body is lying lifeless, pointless, broken and frail I will take my time to revive you, bringing you back to my device There will be no amount of pain I inflict, that my heart will suffice Before I am done with your miserable existence, infliction so precise I will nourish every animalistic desire,until we felt you paid the price You have uprooted in my heart an evil, that cannot be undone The angel of death is upon you waiting, your suffering just begun There is a special place in hell for you and I want you to see it And if I burn with you for my revenge, then I say so be it Taking your pride, shoving it down your throat with my baron hands all that I can taste right now, what the voice in my head demands For you there is no more wasted life, your breath will let you endure And there is no second thought behind my vengeance, my hate is pure With deeds now done and lifeless you lay At my feet, which death did not show haste A smile without tears did appease my lust For your soul and blood that I did taste
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Jan 20, 2011
Jan 20, 2011 at 6:45 AM UTC
Vengeance is Mine
Vengeance is for God to have, But today I lay religion down to rest The demon in my mind has been relentless, whispering at my behest He has been in his cage far too long, he is unyieldingly repressed I not only want to free him, I want to put his imagination to the test My mind's eye dark and searching, the corners of my sinister mind I have now become your worst fear and mine devils intertwined My mental and emotional state, has made the inhumanity refined I hate how you made me long for your pain, I am now your kind Your flesh is but a canvas and your screams will be to no avail You’re now mine, your soul will beg for mercy on the grandest scale I will assault your every sense, leaving no minute detail Until your body is lying lifeless, pointless, broken and frail I will take my time to revive you, bringing you back to my device There will be no amount of pain I inflict, that my heart will suffice Before I am done with your miserable existence, infliction so precise I will nourish every animalistic desire,until we felt you paid the price You have uprooted in my heart an evil, that cannot be undone The angel of death is upon you waiting, your suffering just begun There is a special place in hell for you and I want you to see it And if I burn with you for my revenge, then I say so be it Taking your pride, shoving it down your throat with my baron hands all that I can taste right now, what the voice in my head demands For you there is no more wasted life, your breath will let you endure And there is no second thought behind my vengeance, my hate is pure With deeds now done and lifeless you lay At my feet, which death did not show haste A smile without tears did appease my lust For your soul and blood that I did taste
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28
I turned on the news tonight, and saw a familiar face Maya Angelou speaks of Nelson Mandela “His day is done, our skies are leadened.” It hit me then, Forgiveness is more than  “Oh…it’s okay…” If a man, a single freed prisoner, can change a whole country, can forgive oppression, and depression, and apartheid brutality, Forgiveness is not simple. Sorry is not simple. It’s a chance, to open the door to redemption, Entire countries have forgiven the inhumanity of the past, And yet all of us, each day, Become angry for such small matters. If nations can rebuild, If Polish person can love a German After the Holocaust, We CAN forgive. Forgiveness is the key to our self-imposed prisons.
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May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 12:53 PM UTC
Sorry Is Not Simple
The oppressive yellow filth forces its way in. Takes over the green blanket. Ignoring it’s a sin. A casual passerby, views this unwanted war. Discord versus conformity. An everyday chore. Calling in reinforcements. Escalates to chemical warfare. The cruel inhumanity, because we couldn't share. A fight for cleanliness, and a fight for purity. A useless endeavor. A wasteful battle of immaturity.
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Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 7:44 PM UTC
The Oppressive Yellow Filth
In this fRaGmEnTeD cage,I hear checkpoint moans; anticipating our prone-positioned brothers and sisters held Prone positions against walls Prone positions against fences Prone positions against vehicles Prone positions against buildings Prone positions against prone positions Slam-whacked, bloodied, occupied like our great nation; like our souls I remember a prophet's call, " love your neighbor as yourself " I hear Palestine weeping from Jenin to Hebron, from Jerico to Gaza seized I hear lamentations about blood tales I see only FrAgMeNtS of our land I see FrAgMeNtS of our proud people Lo and behold my Palestine quakes as an earth quake Doves scatter skyward as a prophetic omen Blue skies and Sun momentarily claim victory Then inhumanity's ugly face: America to its Indians, America to its blacks, America to women, America to its gays, America to Mexicans, America to South and Central America, America once to Southeast Asia, America to Islam, America with its war crimes, America and Israel both innocence died So, we pray Koran's verses upon our prayer rugs We gesture all hope The apartheid surrounds us The dead talk to us The smoke surrounds us Perhaps better days we say Entwined with bizarre everydayness we accept sleep with fits Fits without food; Fits without crucial welfare Roads, shelters, mock us sculptured by missiles and bulldozers Bully-bombs exploding in a reign of terror We pray upon our prayer rugs Bully-bombs exploding in a reign terror And oooh how those awful missile FrAgMeNtS fly and Muhammad cries with anguished tears, in this writtened legacy...in written legacy
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Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 5:21 AM UTC
FrAgMeNtS of a People
In this fRaGmEnTeD cage,I hear checkpoint moans; anticipating our prone-positioned brothers and sisters held Prone positions against walls Prone positions against fences Prone positions against vehicles Prone positions against buildings Prone positions against prone positions Slam-whacked, bloodied, occupied like our great nation; like our souls I remember a prophet's call, " love your neighbor as yourself " I hear Palestine weeping from Jenin to Hebron, from Jerico to Gaza seized I hear lamentations about blood tales I see only FrAgMeNtS of our land I see FrAgMeNtS of our proud people Lo and behold my Palestine quakes as an earth quake Doves scatter skyward as a prophetic omen Blue skies and Sun momentarily claim victory Then inhumanity's ugly face: America to its Indians, America to its blacks, America to women, America to its gays, America to Mexicans, America to South and Central America, America once to Southeast Asia, America to Islam, America with its war crimes, America and Israel both innocence died So, we pray Koran's verses upon our prayer rugs We gesture all hope The apartheid surrounds us The dead talk to us The smoke surrounds us Perhaps better days we say Entwined with bizarre everydayness we accept sleep with fits Fits without food; Fits without crucial welfare Roads, shelters, mock us sculptured by missiles and bulldozers Bully-bombs exploding in a reign of terror We pray upon our prayer rugs Bully-bombs exploding in a reign terror And oooh how those awful missile FrAgMeNtS fly and Muhammad cries with anguished tears, in this writtened legacy...in written legacy
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46
Heartbeat, Heartbeat that went live when I cried into the world Heartbeat that went up the first time I felt happiness Heartbeat that went up the first time I saw my mother's smile Heartbeat that goes up every time I am with my friends Heartbeat that goes up every time I hear his voice Heartbeat that now goes up with every scream in the world Heartbeat that goes up every time an innocent soul is taken away Heartbeat that shatters at every time I hear a girl's cry in the air Crying for her life and mind taken away by devil's in human shapes Heartbeat that screams every time inhumanity wins over love Heartbeat that finally goes up with every hope Heartbeat that still believes life is worth living Heartbeat that cherishes life and happiness Heartbeat that protects true friendship and soul connection Heartbeat that I listen to, heartbeat hidden in my heart Hearbeat that pours my soul's scream into lines Heartbeat that guides my mind out of the darkest depths of despair Heartbeat that will stop the day I'll leave this world Heartbeat that will seal my journey Heartbeat, heartbeat, heartbeat...
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Jun 17, 2020
Jun 17, 2020 at 4:58 PM UTC
Heartbeat
Through so many years I ran Afraid and ever cowering The darkness always at my back Voracious, all-devouring Through my mind its black claws reached And picked apart my sanity They scraped all chance of joy away With endless inhumanity Through the days and months and years it chased and clawed relentlessly Eventually I wondered why I ran unending breathlessly Through the dark I turned and looked Pursuit suspended nervously I granted it a name and face It glared with vicious fervency Through its threat I held my gaze And ventured forth an inquiry Its flare of rage could not repress My newfound curiosity Through the long nights we conversed Debating, chatting, bickering The darkness that devoured my life Shrank back, diminished, flickering Through the darkness I now saw With unexpected clarity We spoke as friends, no longer foes Embracing newfound parity Through the dark I look, and laugh My friend now laughs along with me Despite how it had always seemed The darkness is a part of me
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Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 2:11 AM UTC
Through the Darkness
New York, Tel Aviv, Moscow, London, Netanya, Bali, Istanbul, Riyadh, Beslan, Nisanit, Dublin Londonderry, Glasgow, Manchester, Spin Boldak (district), Kuta Kano, Baghdad, Kandahar Mumbai, Karballa, Boston All for God, the almighty God, the inhumanity in his name God, the creator I am weeping for the latest terror victims 141 injured in Boston 3 dead in Boston Jesus Saves...tell that to the dead When will it end? I have nothing....just tears, and an emptiness Confusion I leave you all with your prayers, for all of those lost Over time, to terrorist attacks listed and not listed I pray for the lost, the living and the future I remain confident in mankind....
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Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 11:25 PM UTC
I remain confident in mankind
Brigid was born on a flax mill farm, Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan, At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road, The last child of the Sheridans. The sluice still runs near the water wheel, With thistles thriving on rusted steel. Little's known of Nellie's early years; Da died before she knew grieving tears, They'd turn her eyes in later years. She's eleven posing with her class, This photo shows an Irish lass. Her look is distant, Her face is blurred, But recognizable In an instant. She was schooled six years To last a life, Some math, the Irish, To read and write. Her Mammy grew ill, She lost a leg, And bit by bit, By age sixteen, Nellie buried her first dead. Too young to be alone, Sisters and brother had left the home. The cloistered convent took her in, She taught urchins and orphans About God and Grace and sin. There were no vows for Nellie then. At nineteen she met a Creamery man, Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan; He delivered dairy from his lorry, Married Nellie, Relieved their worry. War flared, men were few, There was work in Coventry. Ireland's thistles were left to bloom. Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy, Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin followed, When war floundered to its end, They shipped back to Monaghan, And brought the mill to life again. The thistles and weeds That surrounded the mill, Were scythed and scattered By Daddy's zeal. He built himself A generator, Providing power To lights and wheel. Sean was born, Gerald soon followed; Then Michael died. A nine year old, His Daddy's angel. Is this what turns A father strange? Francie arrived, Then Eucheria, But ten months later Bold death took her. Grief knows no borders For brothers and sisters. We left for Canada. Mammy brought six kids along, Leaving her dead behind, Buried with Ireland. Daddy was waiting for family, Six months before Mammy got free From death's inhumanity. Her tears and griefs weren't yet over, She birthed another son and daughter; Jimmy and Marlene left us too, Death is sure, Death is cruel. Grandchildren came, she was Granny, Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy. She lived this life eduring pain That mothers bear, Mothers sustain. And yet, in times of personal strain, I'll sometimes whisper her one name, Mammy.
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Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 5:09 PM UTC
Her Many Names
Brigid was born on a flax mill farm, Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan, At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road, The last child of the Sheridans. The sluice still runs near the water wheel, With thistles thriving on rusted steel. Little's known of Nellie's early years; Da died before she knew grieving tears, They'd turn her eyes in later years. She's eleven posing with her class, This photo shows an Irish lass. Her look is distant, Her face is blurred, But recognizable In an instant. She was schooled six years To last a life, Some math, the Irish, To read and write. Her Mammy grew ill, She lost a leg, And bit by bit, By age sixteen, Nellie buried her first dead. Too young to be alone, Sisters and brother had left the home. The cloistered convent took her in, She taught urchins and orphans About God and Grace and sin. There were no vows for Nellie then. At nineteen she met a Creamery man, Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan; He delivered dairy from his lorry, Married Nellie, Relieved their worry. War flared, men were few, There was work in Coventry. Ireland's thistles were left to bloom. Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy, Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin followed, When war floundered to its end, They shipped back to Monaghan, And brought the mill to life again. The thistles and weeds That surrounded the mill, Were scythed and scattered By Daddy's zeal. He built himself A generator, Providing power To lights and wheel. Sean was born, Gerald soon followed; Then Michael died. A nine year old, His Daddy's angel. Is this what turns A father strange? Francie arrived, Then Eucheria, But ten months later Bold death took her. Grief knows no borders For brothers and sisters. We left for Canada. Mammy brought six kids along, Leaving her dead behind, Buried with Ireland. Daddy was waiting for family, Six months before Mammy got free From death's inhumanity. Her tears and griefs weren't yet over, She birthed another son and daughter; Jimmy and Marlene left us too, Death is sure, Death is cruel. Grandchildren came, she was Granny, Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy. She lived this life eduring pain That mothers bear, Mothers sustain. And yet, in times of personal strain, I'll sometimes whisper her one name, Mammy.
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84
I stare at the television news.... Assaulted by violence Stunned by the inhumanity of a Godless society I listen to the radio.... Embarrassed by ads that tout Promiscuous pleasures Outraged by the thinly disguised Decadent discourses of the shock jocks I read the newspapers and magazines.... Cuckolded by corporate America a Loser in the games politicians play Violated Shamed Cheated and Betrayed I try to turn it all off…. but like a bitter pill the distasteful images linger nor can I go along with eyes shut and ears muffled living or not in a padded room of my own making I cannot function without information…. tho my senses are Wounded by the Brutality of the media I yearn for thoughts to ease my distress.... like a mother’s soft whispers to her crying baby like the beauty that shines from faces that know love I don’t want the perception of reality that the media rapes me with.... I want the truth revealed by God in His creation
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Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 9:06 AM UTC
Media Madness
Perhaps there are 100,000 forms of darkness, 100,000 forms of what they call depression. I know one or two of them. There is no suffering scale, no way to compare the suffering of one human being, or one illness to another. So we hold candlelight vigils build totems to gather the universe and pull back clarity around one another’s edges But I can't burn sage inside me. It may attract the bad you hide from. Or is it the good that scares you? The world beyond the bond of hearts is a town without pity. A dull inhumanity of systems failing the people we don’t look at. In this way the brittle tethers of association are tested. Hand in hand greeting the blackening sky, bearing down like the face of a missing child’s parents, staring at one another knuckles clasp tight. Your smile the remaining mirror at the end of the world. If you were here, or I there I’d be home right now. On the inside we’re both waiting for one another still. Because I’m the same, but not. I am ruthlessly forgetful. Names, birthdays, work schedules. But I know the way your hair looks in motion. The way your face looks refracted through a cigarette ember. How when your mood shifts, the church in your eyes becomes torn, battered, and bare. If we could just give another go-round. It would be different, Remember, your best. Where you are, might be, may go. When it used to feel so good.
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Apr 27, 2018
Apr 27, 2018 at 11:58 PM UTC
Distracted, But Not Changed
I was raised by a pack of fools Who proclaim Caucasians are the best. And are glad to fight, at the drop of a hint To put the whole matter to the test. They have an entire joke routine And descriptive names they repeat In minimizing and insisting that Their right to decent treatment isn’t real. There are references to some animals And unfunny comments about color. The statements about characteristics Of body and features always go together With a special set of gross anecdotes To cover any kind of non-Christian belief. And the refusal to consider equality As a decent attitude stands in bright relief. Beneath all this horror, not very deep, Lies a sickening river of hate and fear That fails to improve as education is Rejected year after disgusting year. Pointing out the error of their ways Might earn you a punch in the eye But the bigot hangs on to their rage And never gives fellowship a try. The American Bigot claims to be A staunch Christian all the way through Which forces them to hate and cheat And lie as much as Jesus would do. Of course, we know that Jesus was A preacher of love and acceptance But it seems that bigots never quite Made that Jesus’ acquaintance. So, here we can see we need to add Some terms to this kind of individual Whose relationship to peace and love Is at best slight, scant and residual. We also need to append to their titles Of masters of anger fear and prejudice The unhealthy pallor of indecency, Dishonesty, inhumanity and cowardice.
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Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 11:33 PM UTC
BIGOTRY 101
I was raised by a pack of fools Who proclaim Caucasians are the best. And are glad to fight, at the drop of a hint To put the whole matter to the test. They have an entire joke routine And descriptive names they repeat In minimizing and insisting that Their right to decent treatment isn’t real. There are references to some animals And unfunny comments about color. The statements about characteristics Of body and features always go together With a special set of gross anecdotes To cover any kind of non-Christian belief. And the refusal to consider equality As a decent attitude stands in bright relief. Beneath all this horror, not very deep, Lies a sickening river of hate and fear That fails to improve as education is Rejected year after disgusting year. Pointing out the error of their ways Might earn you a punch in the eye But the bigot hangs on to their rage And never gives fellowship a try. The American Bigot claims to be A staunch Christian all the way through Which forces them to hate and cheat And lie as much as Jesus would do. Of course, we know that Jesus was A preacher of love and acceptance But it seems that bigots never quite Made that Jesus’ acquaintance. So, here we can see we need to add Some terms to this kind of individual Whose relationship to peace and love Is at best slight, scant and residual. We also need to append to their titles Of masters of anger fear and prejudice The unhealthy pallor of indecency, Dishonesty, inhumanity and cowardice.
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40
A drugstore pallid in waning light, always illuminated in halogen halos. I am earless with music. Black metal loud in clanging sets and blows- foreshadowing the smell of cleaning solution, air freshener and the outside sweet at my back all steeped deep in the rip roaring undertone torrent of cigarette smoke blended with cheap perfume until I cannot tell the difference. There is a limp familiarity to the underlying odor born partially of personal encounter and- nestled in the hive mind of social experience. A distillation of regret and remorse, of lonely, of irrelevance; this black hole swallows my voice the way of my ears, eaten by rust. Four cans of beans, kidneys, in cans squeezed without any power against sagging swells melting into other curves and I swerve close and around guiltily, noting you only as the source of this pungent spring. You are smiling apologies ignorant of my apparent inhumanity- blind to my selfish hands.. Pinioning belly flesh, flattening, reaching and gaining attendance from a better man retrieving every dropped can. I’m retreating, shaken, tense to alternatively slacken. My sweat slippery palms with whitened red sharp fingers feel foreign and I am surrounded by razors then shaving cream, moving from shampoo to conditioner, the whole store is infected with smell. Staring at nail clippers/snipers clipping touch smooth sooth my tense mind- don’t look **don’t look** I can sense little else but dread drawing closer you are now crouched so close I’m gagging, taken forcefully-swept away in an olfactory flood roiling in rot, currents of solitude exude from your smiling sullen appearance when I turn to you fumbling with my electric ears, surfacing in a breath of Amish silence broken with simple request and I want to scream at you that I am not a man to ask opinions of that it does not matter what fake nails she glues to her body that she is excluded and I don’t know why. I choose swirls of cream suspended within watery milk, over childish lady bugs framed by yellow or dots of red alternating to black, an epitaph to a lifelike effigy.
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Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 1:42 AM UTC
The Inevitability of Human Incongruity.
A drugstore pallid in waning light, always illuminated in halogen halos. I am earless with music. Black metal loud in clanging sets and blows- foreshadowing the smell of cleaning solution, air freshener and the outside sweet at my back all steeped deep in the rip roaring undertone torrent of cigarette smoke blended with cheap perfume until I cannot tell the difference. There is a limp familiarity to the underlying odor born partially of personal encounter and- nestled in the hive mind of social experience. A distillation of regret and remorse, of lonely, of irrelevance; this black hole swallows my voice the way of my ears, eaten by rust. Four cans of beans, kidneys, in cans squeezed without any power against sagging swells melting into other curves and I swerve close and around guiltily, noting you only as the source of this pungent spring. You are smiling apologies ignorant of my apparent inhumanity- blind to my selfish hands.. Pinioning belly flesh, flattening, reaching and gaining attendance from a better man retrieving every dropped can. I’m retreating, shaken, tense to alternatively slacken. My sweat slippery palms with whitened red sharp fingers feel foreign and I am surrounded by razors then shaving cream, moving from shampoo to conditioner, the whole store is infected with smell. Staring at nail clippers/snipers clipping touch smooth sooth my tense mind- don’t look **don’t look** I can sense little else but dread drawing closer you are now crouched so close I’m gagging, taken forcefully-swept away in an olfactory flood roiling in rot, currents of solitude exude from your smiling sullen appearance when I turn to you fumbling with my electric ears, surfacing in a breath of Amish silence broken with simple request and I want to scream at you that I am not a man to ask opinions of that it does not matter what fake nails she glues to her body that she is excluded and I don’t know why. I choose swirls of cream suspended within watery milk, over childish lady bugs framed by yellow or dots of red alternating to black, an epitaph to a lifelike effigy.
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59
But such people- the mighty, the powerful the rich, the pseudo- intellectual the influential are the most odious what **** sapiens? they are the mal-products of evolution who bring shame to the human race in their inhumanity bullies narcissists items of assorted pathology but they can't see- ' We are the authority and can't do wrong'. In the newspapers they are the centre-piece their pride oozes from their every paw but time brings down even the mightiest and such people end up as discarded old newspapers in the dust-bin of history where they belong so appropriately.
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Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 6:19 PM UTC
DISCARDED OLD NEWSPAPERS*
My Head is pounding, heart is thumping, my tears are flowing and this of late, is all I know: Humanity seems to be beyond control. Humanity seems to have lost its collective soul and I honestly don't know where I need to go... Sometimes I think I might drown in all the sadness in all the pain the torment and inhumanity that seems to surround me no matter where I travel to-- no place is safe anymore nothing is sacred or respected or revered Humanity seems to have truly and completely disappeared...
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Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 5:49 PM UTC
Humanity is No More
Can you outrun the history Of violence and oppression If you felt every inch of terror That was birthed from the bombs Every bit of anguish and loss If you paid the same wages of war Then maybe you to would see The inhumanity of drones If your stomach growled With a pain so deep And you could not sleep Because of the fears you keep Maybe you would not stand For this poverty If every bullet hole Cut partly into your skin Leaving painful impressions If the nightsticks bludgeoned Your beloved And you watched your oppressors Armor up for in house war Maybe you would abhor Police brutality If the circle of kinship Surrounded more than just this Small social club you claim Then maybe the pain Of others would touch you Something as of late It has failed to do Maybe you could use A little empathy
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Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 3:12 PM UTC
Get Some Empathy
I see you, Drinking from the water of inhumanity Smoking the leaves of ingratitude And eating the seeds of hypocrisy. Observing you, I found myself drunk of sorrow. And it makes me, Drink from the water of insomnia Smoke the leaves of melancholy And eat the seeds of solitude So I can, finally, Be drunk of madness
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Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 3:16 PM UTC
Drunk of madness
Bridget was born on a flax mill farm, Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan, At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road, The last child of the Sheridans. The sluice still runs near the water wheel, With thistles thriving on rusted steel. What's known of Nellie's early years? Da died before her grieving tears, But burn her eyes in later years. She's eleven posing with her class, This photo shows an Irish lass. Her visage blurred, Her eyes look distant, Yet recognizable In an instant. She attended school for six short years, The three R's, some Irish, And a Doctorate in tears. Her Mammy grew ill, She lost a leg, And bit by bit, By age sixteen, Nellie buried her first dead. Too young to be alone, Sisters and brother had left the home. The cloistered convent took her in, She taught urchins and orphans About God, Grace and sin. There were no vows for Nellie then. At nineteen she met a Creamery man, Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan; He delivered dairy from his lorry, Married Nellie To relieve their worry. War flared up, and men were few, So the work in Coventry Left Ireland's thistles to bloom. Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy, Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin were carried. When war floundered to its end, They shipped back to Monaghan, To work the flax mill again. The thistles and weeds That surrounded the mill, Were scythed and scattered By Daddy's zeal. He built himself a generator. And powered the lights and the wheel. Sean was born, Gerald soon followed; Then Michael died. A nine year old, His Father's angel. (Is this what turns A father strange?) Francie arrived, Then Eucheria, But ten months later Bold death took her. Grief knows no family borders For brothers and sisters, sons and daughters. We left for Canada. Mammy brought six kids along, Leaving her dead behind, Buried with Ireland in familiar songs. Daddy was waiting for family, Six months before Mammy got free From death's inhumanity. Her tears and griefs weren't yet over, She birthed another son and daughter; Jimmy and Marlene left us too, Death is sure, Death is cruel. Grandchildren came, she was Granny, Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy. She lived this life eduring pain That mothers bear, Mothers sustain. And yet, in times of personal strain, I'll sometimes whisper her one name, Mammy.
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May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC
Her Many Names
Bridget was born on a flax mill farm, Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan, At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road, The last child of the Sheridans. The sluice still runs near the water wheel, With thistles thriving on rusted steel. What's known of Nellie's early years? Da died before her grieving tears, But burn her eyes in later years. She's eleven posing with her class, This photo shows an Irish lass. Her visage blurred, Her eyes look distant, Yet recognizable In an instant. She attended school for six short years, The three R's, some Irish, And a Doctorate in tears. Her Mammy grew ill, She lost a leg, And bit by bit, By age sixteen, Nellie buried her first dead. Too young to be alone, Sisters and brother had left the home. The cloistered convent took her in, She taught urchins and orphans About God, Grace and sin. There were no vows for Nellie then. At nineteen she met a Creamery man, Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan; He delivered dairy from his lorry, Married Nellie To relieve their worry. War flared up, and men were few, So the work in Coventry Left Ireland's thistles to bloom. Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy, Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin were carried. When war floundered to its end, They shipped back to Monaghan, To work the flax mill again. The thistles and weeds That surrounded the mill, Were scythed and scattered By Daddy's zeal. He built himself a generator. And powered the lights and the wheel. Sean was born, Gerald soon followed; Then Michael died. A nine year old, His Father's angel. (Is this what turns A father strange?) Francie arrived, Then Eucheria, But ten months later Bold death took her. Grief knows no family borders For brothers and sisters, sons and daughters. We left for Canada. Mammy brought six kids along, Leaving her dead behind, Buried with Ireland in familiar songs. Daddy was waiting for family, Six months before Mammy got free From death's inhumanity. Her tears and griefs weren't yet over, She birthed another son and daughter; Jimmy and Marlene left us too, Death is sure, Death is cruel. Grandchildren came, she was Granny, Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy. She lived this life eduring pain That mothers bear, Mothers sustain. And yet, in times of personal strain, I'll sometimes whisper her one name, Mammy.
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81
I do not know poetry I know my toenails are too long. I can feel them snag on the sheets that I haven't washed. I'm out of toothpaste my teeth feel grimy, my gums raw I waited all day to see you so you could tell me that you don't like my sweater You say you don't know how to talk to people who are in pain. You are exasperated with the burden of humanity inherited by humanity You are easy when you numb yourself constantly Anger is righteous to accuse you Defense is a child who is confident All the villages you've saved but not me I remember pain I am so disappointed with your inhumanity because no one can fail but me You can read the look on my face I can tell So don't make me say things I can't Pain is a vacuum It doesn't exist in perfection In an absence of sound, even though it itself is so loud, is inaudible While I am at the bottom, God is at the top, and you are somewhere in between You are blocking the view, misleading the people You claim nothing but we demand something When I left your house I wanted to crash my car into a ditch Instead I drove home.
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Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 4:42 AM UTC
The Welcoming Committee
Another poet from another age, Proudly standing the pressure of the locked cage, Racing heart beating in a fitful rage, Innocent as a blooming pitcher sage, Colours flying in fits of energetic madness, Eagles watching from the mountain ledge, Thousands of actors on stage, Ongoing act of inhumanity, Perhaps one day they'll realize, Another day the sun won't rise from the east, nor set in the west, Youthful wishes, sighs of deception, apocalypse (acroustic: A PRiCE TO PAY)
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Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 5:23 PM UTC
Inhumanity Apocalypse